
Glass. 
Book. 




1&& '/Zftt/Si* 



<? DS^ir&rESM LETTERS. 



S -, 



i 








"/nt-e/ /7zam.' /A4-e/ 



Londmx Publu&ed by S.A.kE.CJ%,- Teh. 20.1808 



'X /, LETTERS 




FROM A 



PORTUGUESE NUN 



AN OFFICER 



FRENCH ARMY. 



TRANSLATED BY 

W. R. BOWLES, Esq. 



LONDON: 

PRINTED FOR S.A. AND H. ODDY, 27, OXFORD-STREET J 
AND C LA GRANGE, NASSAU-STREET, DUBLIN. 

T. GiUet, Printer, Crown-court, 

* 1808. 




I 

V 



+ 1 1 hi 



■A 

A 







LC Control Number 




tmp96 031551 



PREFACE. 



The language of nature is uni- 
versal : the same in every age and 
country, among no people is it 
foreign, nor can time render it ob- 
solete : proceeding only from the 
heart, to the heart only does it 
speak ; and wherever there is sen- 
sibility, there will it be understood. 
One of its principal charms is sim- 
plicity, and it is a charm of no small 
influence : the taste is seldom so 
a g 



IT 

vitiated as to be insensible to its 
power. But the chief excellence 
of the language of nature, is the 
force and truth with which it re- 
presents our sentiments and emo- 
tions,, and the power which it pos- 
sesses of commanding our sym- 
pathy. 

In this language has the Portu- 
guese Nun written her impassioned 
letters; letters, which have never 
yet been read without emotion, ex- 
cept by the cold-hearted monster 
to whom they were addressed ; and 
perhaps even his dull apathy has 
been compensated by the general 
sympathy which they have excited. 
On the continent, the interest 



which was created by their first 
appearance,, has rather increased 
than abated. In the French lan- 
guage alone,, into which they have 
been translated, they have already 
passed through more than twelve 
editions : and Dorat, a poet of no 
small talent or reputation, has made 
an elegant poetical version of them ; 
and, in the introduction to his 
poem, he thus characterizes his 
original : 

cc These letters will excite those 
ee delicious tears which relieve the 
" heart, not that agony of grief 
" which oppresses it : they breathe 
- € the most tender, the most impas- 
fC sioned, the most generous love ; 



" they paint the passion in all its 
" nice gradations of shade,, and all 
"its interesting details: you be- 
*f hold its storms, its agitations, its 
cc momentary resolutions, its fond 
<c relapses, the delicacy of its fears, 
" and the heroism of its sacrifices. 
" Racine himself, the painter of 
ec nature, has not represented love 
cc in colours more lovely, or more 
€C seducing, or under a form more 
" impressive, or more beautiful. 

■■ In short, the Portuguese Let- 
sx ters display, with a most accu- 
<c rate delicacy and truth, the heart 
" of a woman deeply impressed 
ff with love: her soul now intoxi- 
u cateilwith bliss, now overwhelm- 



Vll 

€C ed with sorrow ; and describing 
* c all her emotions with the naivete 
cc of genuine feeling, and the glow- 
ic ing warmth of passion. The fair, 
<c who have loved, will find in 
cc them what they have thought 
" and felt a thousand times, when 
<c they have been writing to their 
cc lovers ; and lovers, at least those 
cc who have been fortunate enough 
" to inspire a delicate passion, will 
" think, in reading them, that they 
€€ are re-perusing the letters of their 
cc mistresses/ 3 

Such are the Letters, of which a 
translation is now offered to the 
English reader. Of the unfortu- 
nate writer, and of the person to 



Yin 



whom they were addressed,, as 
much as is known will be found in 
the following historical introduc- 
tion. 



HISTORICAL 

INTRODUCTION. 



The following Letters have ob- 
tained the title of Portuguese, from 
their having been written in that 
language, by a nun or canoness of 
Lisbon. Their history, as accu- 
rately as it can be traced, is this : 

About the year 1663, Noel Bou- 
ton de Chamilly, of a noble and 
distinguished family of Burgundy, 
many of whom, before 1400, we 
find among the chamberlains of 
the Duke of Burgundy, went to 
Portugal; where he served as cap- 



tain of horse under the Marshal 
de Schomberg, During the lei- 
sure which his military avocations 
permitted, he became enamoured 
of Marianne, a young Portuguese 
nun or canoness, in whom he ex- 
cited a passion still more violent 
than what he felt himself. He was 
not however an Adonis, such as 
the gallant court of Louis XIV. 
sent into the different countries of 
Europe to enslave the fair, and 
swell the number and species of its 
conquests. He possessed not the ta- 
lents or accomplishments of Gram- 
mont, nor the graces and wit of 
Hamilton. He resembled rather a 
Hercules in strength and corpu- 



XI 

lence, if we may trust the portrait 
which St. Simon has left us of him. 
" He was/' says he, in his Me- 
moirs, cc a stout fat man : to see 
€< and hear him, we could never 
" imagine how he could have in* 
* c spired such an exalted passion, 
ff as that which is the soul of the 
** famous Portuguese Letters; and 
" he was so dull and heavy, that no 
*' one could suppose he possessed 
€€ any talents for war. — Memoir es 
de St. Simon, torn. iv. p. 2, 4, Sup- 
plement, edit, de Paris, 1789. 

He hid, however, considerable 
abilities as a general. After having 
passed through every step of mili- 
tary rank, it was he who signalized 



Xll 

liimself by that celebrated defence 
of Graave, in 1675, which cost the 
Prince of Orange 16,000 men,, and 
placed de Chamilly in the rank of 
the most illustrious warriors of 
France. As a recompence for his 
glorious services, he was made 
Marshal of France in 1703, and 
knight of the orders in 1705. 

He died at Paris in 1715, aged 
79, leaving no issue by his wife, 
who was still more disagreeable in 
her person than himself, but whose 
wit, conversation, and elegant 
manners, threw a veil over her want 
of personal charms, and contri- 
buted indeed, in no small degree* 
to the advancement of her hus- 



Xlll 



band, independant of his military 
merit. — (Vide Journal de Verdun, 
February 1714, p. 140.) He had 
two nephews, the one Francis 
Bouton Count de Chamilly, born 
in 1663, Ambassador from France 
to the Court of Denmark, and 
afterwards Lieutenant-general of 
the army in 1722 ; the other Louis 
Francis Bouton de Chamilly, Ab- 
bot of La Couture, at Mans, who 
died in 1705. 

We are indebted for these Por- 
tuguese Letters to the passion with 
which Chamilly inspired the ten- 
der Marianne during his stay in 
Portugal ; a passion which his re- 
turn to France rendered still more 



xiv 

violent : her grief for his absence 
being inconsolable, she sought some 
relief in writing to him. 

Chamilly, remaining in France, 
had the foolish vanity to shew these 
letters to his friends, and it is to 
this very folly that we are indebted 
for the possession of them. He con- 
fided the originals to the Counsel- 
lor Subligny, to translate and pub- 
lish them. Sublignyis the author 
of a comedy in prose, written in 
ridicule of the Andromaque of Ra- 
cine, 1668; of the False Clelia, 
a romance, which passed through 
five editions ; and of some writings 
in favour of Racine, after having 
written against him. 



XV 

The nun herself appears, from her 
own account, to have been born in 
the middling rank of society ; but 
her letters bear the stamp of a most 
generous and exalted mind : they 
may be ranked with those of He- 
loise to Abelard, to which, though 
posterior in point of time, they are 
not inferior in merit. 

Here, then, were two women, 
two nuns, who wrote with that ex- 
quisite and inconceivable charm, 
with that accent of passion and of 
love, which vibrates through every 
heart, and to which their sex, soli- 
tude, and devotion, gave additional 
effect : deriving their sentiments 
from the inexhaustible sources of 



XVi 

sensibility and tenderness,, while all 
ideas of self were entirely absorbed 
in the fond contemplation of the 
object beloved. 

The fate of the unfortunate Ma- 
rianne has been never known ; those 
who can feel for sensibility,, and the 
tender devotion of love, will hope 
that time wore from her heart the 
image of her unworthy lover, and 
that in the repose of her convent 
she regained her tranquillity ; but 
alas ! this is scarcely to be hoped ; 
it is more probable that the un- 
happy passion, in which her very 
existence seemed to be involved, 
soon broke a heart, too tender and 
impassioned to survive the apathy 
of despair. 



PORTUGUESE LETTERS. 



LETTER I. 

IT is possible 5 then, that you can for 
an instant have been angry with me, 
and that I, with a passion the most de- 
licate that ever was felt, can have given 
you cause for a moment's vexation ! 
Alas ! what remorse must be mine had 
I been wanting in the fidelity that is 
due to you, since, while I can only be 
accused of an excess of tenderness, I 
yet condemn myself as the cause of 



your anger. But wherefore should it 
occasion this remorse ? Have I not had 
reason to complain ? And should I not 
alarm your affection , could I with- 
out murmuring endure your reserve ? 
Oh my God ! I am continually re- 
proaching my own soul that it does not 
sufficiently discover to you the ardour 
of its emotions, and still you wish to 
conceal from me every secret of yours. 
When my looks have too much soft- 
ness they obey but the tenderness of 
my heart, and are unfaithful to its ar- 
dour. If they are too animated, my 
tenderness is equally dissatisfied. The 
most expressive actions seem to me in- 
adequate to speak my fondness, yet you 
can be reserved with me, even about 
trifles. How does this conduct pain 
me ! and how would you pity me could 



you know to what thoughts it has given 
rise ! But why am I thus curious ? 
"Why do I wish to search into the re- 
cesses of your soul where I should find 
but indifference, and perhaps infide- 
lity. It is kindness that renders you 
so reserved, and I am under an obliga- 
tion to you for your mysterious con- 
duct. You wish to spare me the misery 
of knowing all your indifference, and 
you dissemble your sentiments only 
from pity to my weakness. 

Alas ! why did you not appear thus 
to me in the beginning of our acquaint- 
ance ! My heart might then, perhaps, 
have regulated itself by yours. But it 
was not till you found that I loved with 
so much ardour that you resolved to 
love with so little. Moderation, how- 
ever, is not the characteristic of your 
b 2 



nature, You are impetuous. I ex- 
perienced it no longer ago than yester- 
day. But, alas! your impetuosity 
owes its birth to rage alone, and you 
feel only when you suppose that an in- 
sult is offered. Ungrateful man! what 
has love done that it shares so small a 
portion of your heart ? Why is not 
your warmth of soul manifested to an- 
swer mine ? and why is not this preci- 
pitancy employed to hasten the mo- 
ments of our bliss ? Who that saw r your 
readiness to quit my apartment when 
anger drove you thence, would believe 
you so slow to return when invited by 
love ? But I deserve this treatment for 
venturing to command you. Is it for 
a heart so entirely your own to pretend 
to give you laws ! You were in the 
right to punish it, and I ought to die 



with shame for having believed myself 
the mistress of my conduct. Too well 
you know how to punish this rebellion ! 
Do you remember with what apparent 
tranquillity you yesterday evening of- 
fered to aid my design of seeing you no 
more ? Did your heart really sanction 
this offer, or rather did you think me 
capable of accepting it ? For, such is 
the delicacy of my love, that it would 
be more grievous to me to be suspected 
of a crime than to see it committed by 
you. 

I am more jealous of what is due to 
my affection than to yours, and I could 
more easily pardon you for being un- 
faithful, than for suspecting me of infi- 
delity. Yes, it is with myself I wish 
to be satisfied rather than with you. 
My tenderness is so exalted, and my 



esteem for you makes me so glory in it> 
that allowing you to doubt it appears 
to me the greatest of crimes. But how 
could you doubt it ? Every thing proves 
it to you ; and in your heart, as in mine, 
there is not a> single emotion that does 
not tell you that you are loved to ado- 
ration. Love has so well taught me 
that, even to the moderation of my 
caresses, there is nothing that does not 
convince you of the excess of my pas- 
sion. Have you never observed this 
effect of my compliance with your 
wishes ? How many times have I re- 
strained the transport of my joy on 
your arrival, because your eyes seemed 
to say that you wished me to act with 
more circumspection. You have done 
me a great injustice if you did not ob- 
serve my constraint on those occasions ; 



for such sacrifices are the most painful 
that I ever made you ; but I do not re- 
proach you with them. Wherefore 
should I care to be perfectly happy, 
if what is wanting to my felicity serves 
to increase yours ? Did you shew more 
warmth I should have the pleasure of 
believing myself more beloved, but you 
would not have that of believing yourself 
so much. You would think that my 
fondness was owing to your attachment ; 
but now I have the glory of thinking 
that you owe it to my inclination only. 
Yet abuse not this affectionate genero- 
sity, nor presume upon it so far as to 
withhold the little show of love that 
still remains ; rather be generous in 
your turn. Come to me and protest that 
the disinterestedness of my tenderness 
encreases your own, that when I believe 



all put to the hazard, I in reality ha- 
zard nothing, and that you are as ten- 
der and as faithful as I am tenderly and 
faithfully yours. 



LETTER II. 

It is certainly no violation of truth 
to say that the lady whom we saw yes- 
terday evening is very ugly ; she dances 
vulgarly, and the Count de Cugne was 
much mistaken when he described her 
as a fine woman. How could you re- 
main so long beside her? From the ex- 
pression of her countenance, it appear- 
ed to me that what she said was by no 
means witty. Yet you conversed with 
her the greatest part of the evening, 
and had cruelty enough to tell me that 
you were not displeased with the con- 
versation. What then did she say to 



10 

you that was so charming ? Did she tell 
you news of some French lady who is 
dear to you, or did she herself begin to 
grow dear ; for love alone could make 
so long a conversation bearable ? 

I did not find your newly-arrived 
Frenchmen so agreeable ; I was annoy- 
ed by them the whole evening ; they 
said the wittiest things they could ima- 
gine to rae 5 and I plainly saw that they 
studied to do so, but they afforded me 
no amusement, and I believe it was 
their conversation that gave me the 
dreadful head ache which I have had 
all night. You would know nothing 
of this were I not to tell you. Your 
servants are no doubt occupied in en- 
quiring how that happy French woman 
bears her evening's fatigue, for you 
really made her dance enough to occa- 



11 

sion illness. But what is there so 
charming in her? Do you think her 
more affectionate or more faithful than 
any other? Did you find in her a dis- 
position more favourable to you than 
that which I have shewn ? No ! assured- 
ly that cannot be ! You well know that 
only once seeing you pass by, the re- 
pose of my life was lost, and that, with- 
out any consideration either of my sex 
or birth, I was the first to seek oppor- 
tunities of seeing you again. If she 
has done more than this, she waits your 
getting up this morning, and little Du- 
rino will doubtless find her seated by 
your pillow. I wish for your felicity it 
maybe so. So dear to me is your hap- 
piness, that till my last hour I would 
readily consent to increase it at the 
expence of my own ; and if you wish 



12 

to regale the charmer with the perusal 
of this letter, do it without hesitation. 
What I write to you may not be use- 
less to the advancement of your wishes. 
I rank high in the kingdom ; I have 
always been flattered as possessing some 
share of beauty ; and I believed it till 
your contempt undeceived me. Pro- 
pose me then as an example to your 
new conquest. Tell her that I love 
you even to madness ; I am willing to 
acknowledge it, and would rather bring 
ruin upon me by the avowal, than deny 
a passion so dear to me. Yes, I love 
you a thousand times better than my- 
self. — At the moment I am writing to 
you I am jealous, I own it ; your con- 
duct yesterday has filled my heart with 
rage, and, since I must tell you every 
thing, I believe you are unfaithful. 



13 

Yet in spite of all this I love you more 
than woman ever loved. I hate the 
Marchioness de Furtado for having af- 
forded you the opportunity of seeing 
this new comer. I wish the Marchioness 
de Castro had never been born, since 
it was at her nuptials you were to in- 
flict upon me the pain which I feel. I 
hate the inventor of dancing ; I hate 
myself; and I hate the French woman 
a thousand times more than all the rest; 
but among so many feelings of hatred, 
not one has the audacity to glance at 
you. You are always amiable in my 
eyes. In whatever character I behold 
you, even at the feet of this cruel rival 
who comes to disturb all my felicity, I 
find a thousand charms which have 
never existed but in you. I was even 
so foolish that I could not but feel de- 



14 

light that others saw those charms in 
you which I did, and though I am per- 
suaded that to your merit I may per- 
haps owe the loss of your heart, I 
would sooner see myself condemned to 
the depth of despair, than wish you one 
encomium less than you now receive. 

How is it that in your favour love can 
reconcile feelings so opposite ? — Your 
merit makes me so jealous of all who 
approach you, that nobody can be more 
so ; yet I would go to the end of the 
world to procure you new admirers. 
I hate this French woman with so bitter 
a hatred, that there is nothing, how- 
ever cruel, of which I believe myself 
incapable, to destroy her — yet would I 
wish her the felicity of being beloved 
by you, did I think her love would ren- 
der you more happy than you are. I 



15 

feel myself so blest when you are satis- 
fied, that were it necessary to sacrifice 
all the pleasure of my life to secure one 
instant of yours, I would do it without 
hesitation. Why are you not thus to 
me ? Ah ! did you love as I love, what 
happiness would be ours. Your feli- 
city would constitute mine, and your 
own would by this be made more per- 
fect. No earthly being lias a heart 
filled with love like mine ; none other 
than myself can so perfectly estimate 
your worth ; and you make me pity 
you indeed if you are capable of at- 
taching yourself to any other, after be- 
ing accustomed to such love as mine. 
Believe me, my friend, it is only with 
me that you can be happy. I know 
other women by myself, and I feel that 
of all on earth love has destined me 



16 

alone to be yours. What would be- 
come of all your delicacy, if it no longer 
found my heart to answer it ? Those 
looks so eloquent and full of meaning, 
could other eyes reply <o them like 
mine ? No, it is impossible ! We alone 
know how to love, and both had died 
of discontent had our two souls been 
bound to any but each other. 



17 



LETTER in. 



How long is your absence to con- 
tinue ? Will you yet pass another day 
without returning to Lisbon ? Do you 
not recollect that you have already been 
away two days ? For my part, I think 
you must desire to find me dead at 
your return, and that your design in 
quitting the court was not so much to 
accompany the king in his visit to the 
fleet, as to free yourself from a mistress 
that wearies you : in fact I do so to the 
extreme ; I must acknowledge it. I 
am satisfied neither with you nor with 
myself. An absence of twenty-four 



18 

Tiours brings me to death's door. What 
might be excess of felicity to another is 
not always so to me. Sometimes I 
fancy your happiness n,ot sufficiently 
great : at other times you seem to en* 
joy so much, I fear you cannot owe it 
all to me, and I am displeased with 
every thing, even with the transports 
of my love, when I think you do not 
pay to them enough of attention. Your 
absence of mind terrifies me ; I wish 
to see you quite composed when I know 
all that is passing within you ; but 
when you pay no attention to my ex- 
travagancies you drive me to despair. 
I am not rational ; I own it : but who 
can be so with excess of love like mine. 
I well know that, at the moment I am 
writing, I ought to be at ease. You 
are but a step from town, your duty 



19 

detains you, and the illness of my bro- 
ther would have prevented my seeing 
you during the time you have been 
absent. Above all, there are no women 
where you are, and that removes one 
great disquiet from my heart. But, alas ! 
how many yet remain, and how true it 
is that a fond woman, if she love as I 
do, finds in every thing a torment for 
herself. All this parade of war may 
wean you from the peaceful delights of 
love. Even now, perhaps, you look 
upon the moment of our separation as 
a misfortune that must arrive, and you 
are reasoning to fortify your heart with 
resolution. Ah ! if the sight of our 
cannon thus affect you, all the beauties 
of Europe would be less fatal to me. 

Yet I wish not to oppose your duty. 
Your glory is dearer to me than myself, 
c2 



20 

and well I know you were not born to 
pass all your days with me; but I 
would that the necessity of absence 
gave you as much horror as it gives to 
me; that you could not think of it but 
with trembling ; and that inevitable as 
our separation must appear, you could 
not believe yourself able to sustain it. 

Accuse me not, however, of being gra- 
tified by your despair ; you will shed no 
tear that I shall not desire to wipe away. 
I will be the first to entreat you to bear 
courageously what, through excess of 
grief, will bring me to the grave. No- 
thing should console me for having been 
born, did I think my absence left you 
without consolation. What is it, then, 
I wish ? I know not. I wish to love 
you all my life, even to adoration. I 
wish, if possible, that you might so love 



21 

me. But to wish all this is, at the same 
time, to wish myself the most infatuated 
of women. 

Be not disgusted with my weakness ; 
I have never felt it but for you ; and I 
would not exchange it for the most solid 
wisdom, if to be wise it were requisite 
to love you one degree the less. Your 
understanding is enchanting ; you 
have said the same of mine; but I 
would forego seeing it in either of us, 
did it oppose the progress of our folly. 
Love must reign over every faculty of 
our souls. We must, be entirely at his 
disposal ; and if love be satisfied, I care 
not that reason is displeased. 

Have you been of this way of think- 
ing since I last saw you ? I tremble with 
apprehension that you have not entirely 
possessed your senses. But would it be 



22 

possible for you to possess them, when 
speaking of a war that will remove you 
far from me — no ! you are incapable of 
such treachery. You cannot have look- 
ed upon a soldier who has not drawn 
from you a sigh ; and when you return 
I shall have the pleasure of hearing it 
said that you are at times not in your 
right mind, and that such has been 
your situation during your journey : 
for my part I am sure no person will 
speak to you of me without accusing 
me of the same defect. I utter extra- 
vagancies that astonish all who are 
about me ; and if the illness of my bro- 
ther did not account for my wanderings, 
it would be thought amongst my ser- 
vants that I am become insane : little is 
wanting to make me so indeed. You 
may judge of the incoherency of my 



23 

mind by that of my letter ; but this 
assuredly cannot be displeasing to you. 
The ravages also which your absence 
has committed upon my face, ought to 
be more agreeable to you than the 
bloom of the finest complection ; and I 
should think myself hateful, if being 
deprived of the sight of you for three 
days had not disfigured me. 

What then shall I be if I lose you 
for six months ? Alas ! no change in 
my person will be perceived, for I shall 
die in parting from you. But I hear 
some noise in the street, and my heart 
tells me that it arises from your return. 
Ah, my God ! I am quite overcome ! 
If it be you who are coming, and I can- 
not see you on your arrival, I shall die 
with anxiety and impatience ; and if 
you come not after the hopes I have 



just conceived, vexation, and the tran- 
sition of emotion in my soul, will de- 
prive me of my senses. 



25 



LETTER IV. 



Will you, then, be always cold and 
listless ! Can nothing have power to in- 
terrupt your repose ! What must be 
done to disturb it ? Must I, in your 
presence, throw myself into the arms of 
a rival ? For, except this last act of in- 
constancy, which my love will never 
allow me to commit, I have given you 
reason to apprehend every other. 

I accepted the arm of the Duke 
d'Almeida on the promenade ; I con- 
trived to sit near him at supper, and 
even whispered in his ear some trifles, 
which you might have taken for sub* 



26 

jects of importance : yet I could cause 
no change in your countenance. In- 
grate ! Have you really the inhumanity 
to feel so little love for her who so well 
loves you? Have not my cares, my 
favours, and my truth, been worth one 
moment of your jealousy? Does he, 
who is more dear to me than peace or 
fame, so little value me, that he regards 
my loss without dismay ? Alas ! I 
tremble at the bare idea of losing you ! 
You cast not a look upon another wo- 
man that does not cause me a dreadful 
shuddering ; — you oiFer not a civility 
upon the most trifling occasion that does 
not cost me twenty- four hours of de- 
spair ! Yet can you see me converse 
under your eyes a whole evening with 
another, without betraying the least 
disquietude ! Ah ! you have never 



27 

loved me ; for too well I know what it 
is to love , to think that sentiments so 
different from mine should bear the 
name of love. 

What would I not do to punish you 
for this coldness? There are some mo- 
ments when I am so transported with 
vexation, that I could wish to love an- 
other. — But how ? Amidst all this dis- 
pleasure, I see nothing amiable in the 
world but yourself. Even yesterday, 
when your coldness seemed to rob you 
of a thousand charms, I could not help 
admiring all you did. In your dis- 
dain, there was I know not what of 
greatness that expressed the character 
of your soul, and it was of you I was 
speaking while whispering to the duke, 
so little am I mistress of occasions to 
pffend you ! I was dying with the desire 



28 

of seeing you do something that might 
afford me a pretext of openly affronting 
you ; but how should I have been able to 
do so ? My very anger is but excess of 
love 5 and at the moment I am most in- 
censed at your being so phlegmatic, I 
plainly feel I should find reasons to ex- 
cuse it, did I not love you to distrac- 
tion. In fact, my brother was observ- 
ing us ; the least attempt on your part 
to address me would have been my 
ruin : but could you not have felt jea- 
lousy without making it conspicuous ? 
I understand the glances of your eyes ; 
I could easily have read in your looks 
what others could not perceive as I 
did : but alas ! I saw in them no ap- 
pearance of what I wished to see : I own 
that love was there ; but was it love 
that should have shewn itself at such a 



S9 

time ? Rage and displeasure should 
have darted forth: you ought to have 
contradicted every thing I said ; have 
thought me ugly ; have flattered an- 
other woman before my eyes : — in short, 
you ought to have been jealous, since 
you had every apparent cause to be so. 
But instead of these natural evidences 
of real love, you bestowed on me a 
thousand praises. You took the same 
hand that I had given to the duke, as 
if it had given you no cause of displea- 
sure, and I expected that you were go- 
ing to congratulate me on the attach- 
ment of the most respectable man of 
our court. Insensible being ! — is it thus 
that love is shewn ? Is it thus you are 
beloved by me ? Ah ! had I thought 
you so cold before I loved you as I do ! 
—What then? Though I had per- 



so 

ceived all that I now perceive, and 
more, if possible, I could not have re- 
sisted the impulse of loving you. It is 
a bias of soul over which I had no 
power, and which.... but when I think 
of the moments of delight this passion 
has afforded me, I cannot repent of 
having conceived it. 

What should I not do, then, if I 
were satisfied with you, since I am so 
transported with love at the time I have 
most cause to complain ! But you know 
the difference ; you have seen me sa- 
tisfied, you have seen me displeased, 
I have uttered complaints to you, yet 
in anger or in joy, you have always 
seen me the most affectionate of women. 

Will so noble a disposition inspire 
you with no emulation ? Love, my dear 
Insensible ! love as ardently as you are 



31 

loved. The soul finds no true pleasure 
but in love. The excess of bliss springs 
from excess of passion ; and indifference 
is a greater foe to those who cherish it, 
than to those whom it withstands. Ah! 
had you once really known the genuine 
transport of affection, how would you 
envy those who feel it. Even for the 
possession of your heart I would not be 
the owner of your cold tranquillity. I 
prize my raptures as the greatest bless- 
ings that were ever mine, and I would 
rather be condemned to see you no 
more, than to see you without feeling 
those emotions which your presence in- 
spires. 



33 



LETTER V. 



Is it to put my docility to the test 
that jou write to me in the manner 
which you do ? or is it really possible 
that you can think all that you have said 
to me ? Believe me capable of loving 
another! — grant me patience! — though 
my delicacy is deeply wounded by this 
opinion, yet I, who love you more than 
mortal ever was loved, have frequently 
entertained it of you. But to believe 
this infidelity consummated, to heap 
invectives upon me, and to labour to 
persuade me that I shall never see you 
more, that is what I cannot endure. I 
have been jealous, for no perfect love is 



m 

free from jealousy : but I have never 
been brutal. Your idea lias always 
been present to me, and even amidst 
my greatest anger I have still recollect- 
ed that it was you who were the object 
of my suspicions. 

Alas ! how many faults do I perceive 
in your passion ; how little are you ca- 
pable of loving; and how easy it is 
to discover that you have no love in 
your heart, since all that drops unpre- 
meditatedly from you is so unworthy 
the name of love. Alas ! that heart 
which I have purchased with the whole 
of my own ! that heart which I have 
merited by so many transports, so 
much fidelity, and which you assured 
me was mine, is capable of offending 
me thus ! Its first impulse is to pour 
forth injurious language ; and when you 
allow it to act for itself, it expresses 



35 

nothing but outrage. Go, ungrateful 
as you are ! I will leave you your sus- 
picions to punish you for having con- 
ceived them ; the belief that I am ten- 
der and faithful ought to be sufficiently 
dear to you to make a doubt of my be- 
ing so a torment. It would be easy for 
me to cure you of your suspicion, nor 
is the power of keeping your resent- 
ment alive consistent with my own re- 
pose.... But I would have you abjure 
an error which only avenges me : — if 
you think I resent the injury you have 
done me, then still believe the rest of 
your suspicions — I am the most faith- 
less of women. 

I have, nevertheless, not seen the man 

who causes your jealousy ; the letter 

which is pretended to be mine is not so, 

and there is no proof to which I could 

d 2 



36 

not submit without fear, if I chose to 
give you that satisfaction. But why 
should I give it you ? Is it by invec- 
tives that it is to be obtained ? Would 
you not have cause to think me as des- 
picable as you represent me, if you 
owed my justification to your menaces ? 
You will, you say, never see me more ; 
you leave Lisbon for fear of being un- 
fortunate enough to meet me ; and you 
would poignard the dearest of your 
friends if he committed against you the 
treason of bringing you into my pre- 
sence. Cruel man ! what has the sight 
of me done to you, that it should be so 
insupportable ? It has never been to you 
the harbinger of aught but pleasures ; 
you have never read in my eyes any 
thing but love, and their ardent desire 
to express it ; and is this a cause to 



37 

oblige you to quit Lisbon, that you may 
never see me more ? If this be the only 
reason for going, do not go. I will 
spare you the trouble of avoiding me ; 
and besides it is rather I who ought to 
fly than you. The sight of me has cost 
you only the indulgence of suffering 
yourself to love, while the sight of you 
has cost me all the glory and all the 
happiness of my life ! 

I confess that it has also been to me 
a source of bliss. O ! when I picture 
to myself the secret emotions which I 
felt whenever I thought I saw you 
amidst the throng ! — the soft languor 
which stole away my senses whenever I 
met your eyes ! —the inexpressible trans- 
ports of my soul whenever we had the 
opportunity of a moment's conversa* 
tion ! — I know not h ow I was able to exist 



38 

before I saw you, nor how I shall exist 
when I see you no more ! — But what I 
have felt, you ought to have felt ; you 
were beloved, and you told me that you 
loved ; yet you are the first to propose 
seeing me no more ! — Ah ! you shall be 
satisfied — never while I live will I see 
you again. 

It would, however, give me extreme 
pleasure to reproach you personally 
with your ingratitude, and my revenge 
would, methinks, be more complete, if 
my eyes and all my actions confirmed 
to you my innocence. That innocence 
is so perfect ! — the falsehood which has 
been told you is so easy to refute, that 
you could not talk with me, even for a 
quarter of an hour, without being con- 
vinced of your injustice, and without 
dying of regret that you had committed 



39 

it. This idea has already twice or thrice 
prompted me to fly to your habitation , 
and Ido not know whether it will not 
lead me thither, in spite of myself, be- 
fore the day is at an end ; for my anger 
is violent enough to deprive me of my 
reason. But no, I have so long been 
in the delightful habit of studying your 
disposition and wishes, that I am led to 
fear I should displease you by so bold 
a measure. I have always seen you 
act with unequalled discretion ; you 
have been more careful than myself of 
my reputation ; nay, you have even 
carried your precautions sometimes so 
far as to compel me to complain of 
them. What then would you say, if I 
were to do any thing which could be- 
tray our amours, and affect my honour 
amongst persons of character ? You 



40 

would despise me, and I should die if 
I thought you capable of it ; for what- 
ever happens, I wish always to possess 
your esteem. 

Complain ! abuse me ! betray me ! 
hate me! since you can do it; but 
never despise me. From the moment 
that your love no longer constitutes 
your felicity I may live without it, but 
I cannot live without your esteem, and 
I believe this is the reason why I am so 
impatient to see you : for it is not pos- 
sible that my impatience can arise from 
tenderness : I should be mad indeed to 
love a man who treats me as 1 am treat- 
ed by you. 

Nevertheless, if your anger be con- 
sidered under a proper point of view, 
it appears to be caused solely by an 
excess of passion. You would not be 



41 

so transported with anger, if your love 
were Jess vehement. Ah ! why cannot 
I persuade myself of this truth ! how 
dear to me, then, would be the out- 
rages which you have committed against 
me ! But no, I will not flatter myself 
with this pleasing delusion. You are 
guilty. — Even should you not be so, I 
will believe it, that I may punish you 
for having suffered me to think so. I 
shall not go to-day to any place where 
you can see me ; I shall pass the after- 
noon with the Marchioness de Castro, 
who is indisposed, and whom you do 
not visit. To conclude, I am resolved 
to be angry, and this is perhaps the last 
letter that you will ever receive from 
me. 



43 



LETTER VI. 



Is it indeed I who am now writing to 
you I Are you the same being that you 
formerly were ? By what miracle does it 
happen that you have testified your 
love to me without its inspiring my 
joy ? I have seen you manifest an ar- 
dor and impatient anxiety ; I have read 
in jour eyes the same desires to which 
you have always hitherto found my 
feelings in such perfect accordance. 
They were no less ardent than when 
they constituted my sole felicity. I ana 



44 

as tender, as faithful, as I ever was ; 
and yet I find myself cold and care- 
less. It seems as if you had only 
cheated my senses by an illusion which 
wanted the power to reach my heart. 

Ah ! how dear do those reproaches 
cost me which you draw down upon 
yourself! Of how many transports am 
I not robbed by a single day of your 
negligence. I know not what secret 
demon incessantly whispers to me that 
it is to my anger I owe all your tender 
assiduities, and that there is more policy 
than sincerity in the sentiments which 
you have avowed. It must, in truth, 
be confessed, that delicacy is a gift of 
love which is not always so precious as 
we would persuade ourselves. I ac- 
knowledge that it gives a zest to our 
pleasures, but then what keenness it 



45 

adds to our sorrows. I still imagine 
that I see you in that absence of mini 
which has caused me so many sighs. 
Do not, my love, deceive yourself on 
this point : your ardours are the source 
of all my felicity ; but they would be 
the source of all my indignation, if I 
thought I owed them to any thing 
save the natural impulse of your 
heart. I fear studied actions much 
more than .coldness of temperament. 
Shall I tell you the whole of my fancies 
on this subject? It was the excess of 
your transports yesterday which gave 
birth to my suspicions. You seemed 
out of yourself; and through all that 
you appeared to be I sought your real 
self. O heavens! what would have be- 
come of me had I foand you guilty of 
dissimulation ? I prefer your love to my 



46 

fortune, to my glory, to my life ; but i 
could more easily support the certainty 
of your hatred, than the deceitful sem- 
blance of your love. It is not to the 
exterior that I look, but to the feelings 
of the soul. Be cold, be negligent, be 
even fickle, if you can be so, but never 
dissimulate. Deception is the greatest 
crime that can be committed against 
love ; and I would much sooner pardon 
you for infidelity, than for using art to 
conceal it from my knowledge. You 
said a number of fine things to me yes- 
terday afternoon, and I wish you could 
have seen yourself at that moment as I 
saw you. You would have found your- 
self quite a different being from what 
you generally are. Your mien was 
yet more noble than it naturally is, 
your passion sparkled in your eyes, and 



47 

rendered them more piercing and more 
tender. I saw that your heart was on 
your lips. Oh ! how happy am I, if it 
did not show itself there under false co- 
lours ! In truth, I put you too much to 
the test, and it is not in my power to try 
you less than I do. The pleasure of 
loving with my whole soul is a bliss for 
which I am indebted to you, nor is it 
now possible for you to ravish it from 
me. I know full well that in spite of 
myself I shall always adore you, and I 
am equally certain that I shall still adore 
you, even in spite of yourself. These 
are dangerous assurances ; yet why 
should they be ? Yours is not a heart 
that must be retained by fear ; I should 
never feel assured of the safety of my 
conquest, if I preserved it by that tie 
alone. Politeness and gratitude count 



48 

for much in friendship, but they go for 
nothing in love. We must obey the 
heart without consulting the reason. By 
the sight of a beloved object the soul is 
rapt away, however strong our reason 
may be — at least such I feel is my case 
with regard to you. It is neither the 
habit of seeing you, nor the fear of 
giving you pain by my absence, that 
compels me to seek your presence..., 
....it is an irresistible eagerness which 
springs from the heart, without artifice, 
and without reflection. I frequently 
seek you even in places where I am 
sure that I shall not find you. If it be 
thus with you, the instinct of our hearts 
will doubtless make them every where 
meet each other. I am compelled to 
pass the greater part of the day in a 
place where, alas ! you cannot be. But 



49 

let us abandon ourselves to the passion 
which fills our hearts, let us allow our 
desires to guide us 5 and you will find 
that we shall not fail to pass agreeablj 
even those hours which we cannot pass 
together* 



51 



LETTER VII. 



Let us not keep our rows, my friend, 
I conjure you ! It costs us too much to 
keep them. Let us see each other, 
and, if possible, let it be immediately. 
You have suspected me of infidelity; 
you have declared your suspicions in a 
manner the most insulting; yet I love 
you more dearly than myself, and can- 
not live without seeing you. Where- 
fore impose on ourselves a voluntary 
absence, have we not enough to ex- 
perience that is inevitable? Come, then, 
restore perfect joy to my soul by a 
moment of unrestrained conversation. 
e 2 



52 

You tell me you wish to come only 
to entreat my pardon! Ah ! come, 
though it be to reproach me; come, 1 
conjure you. I would rather see your 
eyes darting anger, that not see them at 
all : but I hazard nothing in leaving 
you the choice. I know I shall see 
them affectionate, and glowing with 
love ; for so they have already appear- 
ed this morning at church. I read in 
them the shame of your credulity, 
and in mine you must have seen the 
assurance of your pardon. Let us 
speak no more of this quarrel ; or if we 
do speak of it, let it be to guard our- 
selves from such another. How could 
either of us doubt that our love was re- 
ciprocal ? It is but for love that we 
exist. Such a heart as I have would 
never have been given me, had it not 



53 

been destined to be filled with your 
image; you would not have the soul you 
possess, had you not been formed to 
love ; and it was only that you might be 
loved to the degree you merit, and 
that you might love as much as you are 
beloved, that heaven made us suscep- 
tible of the flame. But tell me, 1 pray 
you, have you felt what I have felt since 
we pretended to be at strife ? For never 
have we been so in reality : we are in- 
capable of being so, and our destinies 
prevail over every cause of displeasure. 
Great God ! how painful have I found 
this dissimulation ! How have my eyes 
done violence to themselves in disguis- 
ing their expression; and what foes 
must we be to ourselves, to check con- 
fidence for a moment, where there is 
love such as ours. 



54 

My feet involuntarily led me where 
I was likely to meet you. My heart, 
so sweetly accustomed to overflow at 
your approach, sprung to my eyes to 
express its delight, and, as I forced 
myself to refuse it their aid, it smote 
me with such pangs as can be conceived 
only by those who have felt them. 

I think, too, that one soul has ani- 
mated us. I have met you in places 
where chance alone could not have 
brought you ; and if I must confess 
all my little vanities, I have never seen 
so much love in your looks as since 
you have endeavoured to conceal it. 
How silly it is to torment ourselves 
thus! Why do we not unveil our 
whole souls to each other ? I knew all 
the tenderness of yours, and I could 
have distinguished all the emotions of 



55 

its' love from those of any other : but 
I knew not your anger nor your pride. 
I knew you were capable of jealousy 
since you could loye ; but I knew not 
what character that passion would as- 
sume in your heart. It would have 
been treachery to leave me longer in 
doubt of it; and I cannot but feel 
grateful to your injustice, since it has 
led me to so important a discovery. I 
did wish you to be jealous, I have 
found you so ; but now renounce your 
jealousy as I renounce my curiosity. 
"Whatever look a lover wears, there is 
none that so becomes him as the happy 
lover's air. It is a great error to say 
that the lover is a dull and uninteresting 
being when he is blest. He who is not 
pleasing in such a character, would be 
less so in any other. Where there is 



56 

not refinement enough to wear it with 
advantage, it is the heart that must be 
blamed and not the happiness. 

Come quickly, my love, come quick- 
ly, and confirm this truth. I should 
be unwilling indeed to lose time upon 
so long a letter, did I not know that 
you cannot see me at the hour I am 
writing to you. Whatever pleasure 
I find in thus conversing with you, 
how infinitely more delightful would 
be a mutual conversation ! This is so- 
litary joy which I only taste, but in our 
interviews you partake the pleasure. 

Yet, I cannot have the one but when 
decorum will permit; while the other 
depends on myself alone. At this mo- 
ment, when every person in our house 
is at rest, and perhaps feels happy in 
being able to repose, I enjoy a happi- 



1 



57 

ness that the sweetest sleep could not 
yield me. I write to you ; my heart 
speaks to you as if you could reply to 
it; it consecrates to you its waking 
hours and its impatience. Ah! how 
happy are we when we truly love ! 
How I pity those who languish in the 
inactivity to which freedom gives birth. 
Good morning to you my friend, the 
day begins to dawn. It had dawned 
much sooner than usual had it consulted 
my impatience : but it is not in love 
as we are. I must pardon then its 
slowness, and endeavour to beguile it 
by a few hours slumber, that it may be 
the less insupportable. 



59 



LETTER VIII. 



Think, my love, to what an extreme 
you have been wanting in foresight! 
Ah ! unfortunate that you are, you 
have been misled, and you have mis- 
led me by illusive hopes. The pas- 
sion upon which you raised so many 
projects of delight, presents you no- 
thing now but sad despair, despair only 
to be equalled by the cruelty of the 
separation that occasions it. Must 
then this separation, to which my grief, 
ingenious as it is, can give no name 
sufficiently expressive of its horror^ 
must it for ever take from me the sight 



60 

of those dear eyes in which I was used 
to see so much love ! those eyes that 
were to me as every thing, and gave 
me full content ! 

Alas ! mine are deprived of the only 
beams that animated them ! they have 
nothing left but tears, and I have only 
used them in incessant weeping, since 
I heard you were resolved upon a sepa- 
ration ; it will be insupportable to me, 
and must speedily bring me to the 
grave. 

Nevertheless, I seem lo have a love 
for the misery which you alone have 
brought upon me. My life was at your 
disposal from the first moment I beheld 
you, and 1 feel some pleasure in sacri- 
ficing it to you. 

A thousand times a day I send my 
sighs to you, they seek you every where ; 



61 

yet all they bring me back in recompense 
for so many disquietudes is the too sure 
foreboding of my hapless fortune, which 
cruelly will not permit me to indulge 
a hope, but at every moment whispers, 
cease, unhappy Marianne ! cease to con- 
sume thyself in vain, nor longer seek a 
lover whom thou wilt never see again. 
He has passed the seas but to avoid 
thee ; he is in France encircled with 
pleasures ; he thinks not for a moment 
on thy grief, he absolves thee from thy 
tenderness, and thanks thee not for it, 
But no, I cannot bring myself to think 
of you so injuriously ; I am but too 
much interested in justifying you. I 
will not believe that you have forgotten 
me. 

Am I not sufficiently wretched, with- 
out tormenting myself with unjust sus~ 



62 

picions ? And wherefore should I en- 
deavour to banish the remembrance of 
all the attentions which you lavished 
to convince me of your love ? Those 
sweet attentions so charmed me, that I 
should be indeed ungrateful, did I not 
love you with all the warmth my pas- 
sion inspired, while I enjoyed the proofs 
of yours. How is it that the recollec- 
tion of moments so delightful should 
become thus painful ? Why must they, 
in contradiction to their nature, serve 
only to oppress my heart ? Alas ! your 
last letter reduced it to a strange condi- 
tion : its agitation was so strong, that it 
seemed endeavouring to separate itself 
from me, and go in quest of you. I 
was so overcome with these violent emo- 
tions, that I remained more than three 
hours bereft of all sense — I wished not 



63 

to return to a life which I must lose for 
you, since I am not to preserve it for 
your sake : however, in spite of myself 5 
I again beheld the light. I did flatter 
myself with the idea that I was dying- 
for love ; and besides, I rejoiced to be 
no more exposed to feel my heart torn 
with anguish for your absence. 

Since this attack I have been several 
times ill ; but can I be ever free from 
sufferings, while deprived of seeing you ? 
I bear them, nevertheless, without a 
murmur, since they proceed from you. 
Is this then my recompence for loving 
you so tenderly ? But it matters not ; I 
am resolved to adore you all my life, 
and never to look upon another. You 
will do well too, I assure you, to love 
no other person. Could you be satis- 
fied with a passion less ardent than 



64 

mine? You will, perhaps, meet with 
more beauty (though you have told 
me I was sufficiently beautiful), but 
you will never meet with so much love 
— and all the rest is nothing. 

Do not fill up your letter with affairs 
of no importance, nor tell me again to 
remember you. I cannot forget you, 
neither do I forget that you have given 
me hope that you would come to pass 
some time with me — Alas ! why not 
your whole life ? Were it possible for 
me to quit this miserable cloister, I 
would not wait in Portugal for the ful- 
filment of your promise. Regardless of 
appearances, I would fly to seek you, 
love you, and follow you through the 
world. I dare not flatter myself that 
this can ever be ; I will not cherish a 
hope that would assuredly yield me 



65 

some pleasure; henceforth I will be 
sensible to grief alone. 

I own, however, that the opportunity 
my brother has afforded me of writing 
to you, has excited some sensation of joy 
in me, and for a moment suspended 
my despair. I conjure you to tell me 
wherefore you sought, as you did, to 
captivate my soul, since you well knew 
you were to leave me ! And wherefore 
have you been so eager to make me un- 
happy ? Why did you not leave me in 
the repose of my clois'er ? Had I done 
you any wrong ? Yet pardon me, I im- 
pute nothing to you ; I have no right 
to think of blame ; I accuse only the 
severity of my fate : in separating us, it 
has inflicted all the evil that it could. 
It cannot separate our hearts ; love ? 
stronger than fate, has united them for 



66 

ever: if my heart is still dear to you, 
"write to me often. I surely merit that 
you should take some little pains to let 
me know the state of your heart, and of 
your fortune. Above all, come to see 
me. Adieu ! I know not how to quit 
this paper ; it will fall into your hands. 
Would the same happiness were mine ! 
Alas, senseless that I am ! I well know 
that is not possible. Adieu--I can 
proceed no further. Adieu ; love me 
always, and be the cause of my endur- 
ing still severer sorrow. 



67 



LETTER IX. 



It is doing the greatest injustice in 
the world to the sentiments of my heart, 
to endeavour to make them known to 
you by what I write. How happy 
should I be could you truly judge of 
them by the warmth of your own ! but 
this I must not expect from you, and I 
cannot refrain from saying, much less 
bitterly indeed than I feel it, that you 
ought not to wrang me, as you do, by 
a forgetfulness which drives me to de- 
spair, and which is even disgraceful to 
yourself. 

It is but just, at least, that you 
*2 



68 

should suffer me to complain of the 
evils I anticipated, when I saw you 
were resolved to quit me. I am now 
quite convinced I was mistaken in sup- 
posing that, because the excess of my 
love made me appear above suspicion, 
and merited more fidelity than is usu- 
ally to be met with, you would act more 
nobly than is the general practice upon 
such occasions. 

The inclination you have to betray 
me prevails, in truth, over the justice 
that you owe me for all I have done. 

I should certainly be very unhappy 
if you were to love me only because I 
love you, and I should lament not 
owing every thing to your inclination 
alone : but even this is not the case — 
I have not received a letter from you 
these six months. 



69 

I attribute all these sufferings to the 
blindness with which I indulged my 
affection for you. Ought I not to have 
foreseen that my pleasures would ter- 
minate much sooner than my love ? 
Could I hope that you would remain 
all your life in Portugal, and renounce 
your fortune and your country to think 
only of me ? My sorrows admit of no 
relief, and the remembrance of my joys 
overwhelms me with despair. 

Alas ! and all my wishes then are un- 
availing ! . . . .and I shall never again be- 
hold you in this room with all that ar- 
dour and rapturous emotion which you 
were accustomed to display. But alas! 
I mistake, I know but too well now 
that the transports which took entire 
possession of my head and heart, were 
excited in you only by the transient 



70 

feeling of pleasure, and that with that 
feeling they expired. 

In those too happy moments I ought 
to have called reason to my aid to mo- 
derate the fatal excess of my delights, 
and warn me of all I suffer now : but I 
gave myself up entirely to you, and I 
was in no state to think of what would 
have empoisoned my bliss, and pre* 
Tented me from fully enjoying the ar- 
dent expressions of your passion. I 
was too happy in the consciousness of 
your presence, to reflect that you would 
be one day separated from me. 

I recollect, however, having some- 
times said you would render me unr- 
happy ; but those alarms were soon dis- 
sipated. I even found pleasure in sa- 
crificing them to you, and in abandon- 
ing myself entirely to the enchantment 



71 

and deceit of your protestations. I 
well know the remedy for all my suf- 
ferings, and I should soon be relieved 
from them could I cease to love you : 
but alas ! what a remedy is this ! No, 
I would endure yet more 7 rather than 
forget you. Alas! is it in my power 
to forget you ! I cannot reproach my- 
self with having for one moment wished 
to divest myself of love for you : you 
are more to be pitied than I am, and it 
is better to suffer as I do, than enjoy the 
insipid pleasures that you find among 
your beauties of France. 

I envy not your indifference. You 
excite my compassion. I defy you to 
forget me entirely. I flatter myself with 
having such power over your soul, 
that without me all your joys must 
be imperfect; and I am more forlu- 



72 

hate than you, because I am more oc- 
cupied. 

I have been lately appointed to re- 
ceive the visitors in the parlour of the 
convent. Ail who speak to me think I 
am insane ; I know not what I reply to 
them : and certainly the nuns must be 
as insane as myself, to think me capable 
of any charge. Ah ! I envy the hap- 
piness of Emmanuel and Francisco :* 
why am not I continually with you as 
they are ? I was willing to follow you ? 
and surely I should have served you 
with more zeal. 

I wish for nothing in the world but 
to see you.... at least remember me. I 
content myself now with your remem- 
brance^ but I dare not assure myself of 

* M. de Chamilly's pages, 



73 

it. I did not confine my hopes to being 
remembered by you when I saw you 
every day : but you have made me feel 
that I must submit to all that you decree. 
Nevertheless I do not repent of having 
adored you ; I rejoice that you subdued 
my soul. Your cruel, and perhaps 
eternal absence^ diminishes, in no de- 
gree, the warmth of my affection. I 
make no secret of it ; I would have it 
known to all the world ; I have sacri- 
ficed decorum to you — I delight, I 
triumph in the sacrifice. As I have once 
loved you, my honour and religion shall 
henceforth consist in loving you through 
life. 

I do not tell you all these things to 
induce you to write to me. Ah no ! 
do not constrain yourself : I would have 
nothing from you that does not flow di- 



Ti 

rectly from your heart, and I refuse all 
testimonies of love which you have 
power to withhold. I shall have plea- 
sure in excusing you, because perhaps 
you will have pleasure innot taking the 
trouble to write ; for I feel entirely dis- 
posed to pardon all your faults. 

A French officer this morning had 
the charity to speak of you to me for 
more than three hours. He told me 
peace was made with France. If that 
be the case, could you not come here 
and take me back with you ? But I am 
not worthy of that ; do what you please ; 
my love no longer depends on your 
conduct tome. 

Since your departure I have not en- 
joyed a single moment's health, and I 
have had no kind of pleasure but in re- 
peating your name a thousand timed a 



75 

day. Some of the nuns who know tlie 
deplorable state into which you have 
plunged me, speak of you very fre- 
quently. I go as seldom as possible 
out of the room where you have been 
so many times, and I look incessantly 
at your portrait, which is a thousand 
times dearer to me than life. It affords 
me some pleasure; but it likewise 
causes me a great deal of anguish when 
I think that I shall, perhaps, never see 
you again. Yet wherefore should it 
be possible that I shall never see you 
again ? Have you for ever abandoned 
me ? Alas ! I despair. Your poor Ma- 
rianne can support herself no longer. . . 
she sinks as she concludes this letter. 
Adieu, adieu.... have pity on me. 



77 



LETTER X. 



What will become of me, and what 
would you have me do ? I find my si- 
tuation widely different from what I 
had conceived it would be, I did ex- 
pect that you would write to me from 
every place you passed through, and 
that your letters would be very long ; 
that you would sustain my passion by 
the hope of seeing you again ; that an 
entire confidence in your fidelity would 
afford me some degree of repose, and 
that, in the mean time, I should remain 
in a state not quite intolerable; free 
from extreme anguish. I had even 



78 

conceived some feeble projects of using 
every effort of which I should be ca- 
pable to effect my cure, could I be once 
thoroughly assured that you had quite 
forgotten me. Your absence, some 
feelings of devotion, the fear of utterly 
ruining all that remains of health t>y 
such incessant watchings and anxieties, 
the little probability of your return, the 
coldness of your love and of your last 
farewel, your departure, grounded upon 
very insufficient pretexts, and a thou- 
sand other reasons, which are but too 
good and yet too unavailing, all seemed 
to promise me, should it become neces- 
sary, an effectual aid: in short, having 
nothing to contend with but myself, I 
could never suspect all my weakness, 
fior apprehend all that I now suffer. 
Alas! how much am I to be pitied 



79 

that you do not share my grief, but 
tliat I alone am wretched. The thought 
is death (o me. I die, too, with the 
fear that you were never really sensible 
of our pleasures. Yes, I see now the 
treachery of your whole conduct. You 
deceived me every time you said you 
were delighted <o be alone with me. To 
my importunate fondness only I have 
owed your transports and your seeming 
warmth. You deliberately laid a plan 
to ensnare me ; you considered my pas- 
sion as a triumph for yourself, but 
never did it deeply touch your heart. 
Are you not sadly pitiable, and must 
you not possess indeed very little de- 
licacy, if this be all the satisfaction you 
have found in my affection ? How is 
it possible that with so much love, I 
have not been able to render you com- 



so 

pletely blest ? I regret, for your sake 
alone, the innumerable pleasures you 
have lost ; must I feel too that you 
have not been willing to enjoy them ? 
Ah! had you but known them, you 
would surely find that they are of in- 
finitely greater value than the poor 
triumph of deceiving me ; you would 
feel that there is a far greater hap- 
piness, a sweeter thrill, in passionately 
loving than in being loved. I know 
not what I am, nor what I wish for. I 
am racked by a thousand opposite tor- 
tures. Can so deplorable a condition 
be conceived ? I love you to distrac- 
tion, yet have such consideration for 
you that I would not dare, perhaps, to 
wish that you were agitated by the same 
feelings. I should kill myself, or I 
should die of grief, did I believe that 



81 

you have never any rest, that your whole 
life is nothing but vexation and distress, 
that you weep incessantly, and that 
every thing is hateful to you. My own 
sufferings are more than I can bear ; 
how then should I support the anguish 
of yours, which would wound me a 
thousand times more deeply. 

But yet I cannot bring myself to wish 
that you should never think of me, 
and 5 to speak sincerely to you, I am 
madly jealous of every thing that gives 
you pleasure, that gratifies your heart, 
or even your taste, while in France. 

I know not why I write to you. I 
foresee that you will merely pity me, 
and it is not your pity that I want. I 
am irritated with myself when I reflect 
on all that I have sacrificed to you. I 
have lost my reputation, I have ex« 



•82 

posed myself to the fury of my rela- 
tions, to the severity of our laws against 
offending nuns, and to your ingratitude, 
which, of all these misfortunes, appears 
to me the greatest. 

Nevertheless, I plainly feel that my 
remorse is not sincere ; that, with my 
heart's entire sanction, I would have 
run still greater dangers for you, and I 
find a horrible delight iii having risqued 
my life and honour. Ought not all I 
hold most dear to have been at your 
disposal ? And shall I not rejoice in 
having so devoted them ? I even think 
my sufferings and my love are not 
enough, though, alas S I have little rea- 
son to be satisfied with you. Faithless 
that I am, I live and endeavour to pre- 
serve existence, rather than to lose it. 
Ah ! I almost die with shame; my de- 



83 

ispair exists then in my letters only ! Had 
I loved as much as I a thousand times 
declared I did, should I not, long since 5 
have died ? I have deceived you, and 
you have reason to complain of me. 
Alas ! why do you not complain ? I have 
seen your departure, I cannot hope 
ever to see you return, and yet I still 
exist. I have been insincere to you, I 
implore your pardon :,... but do not 
grant it to me.... Treat me severely. 

Think not that my feelings are suffi- 
ciently ardent. Be yet more difficult 
to be satisfied. Tell me you wish that 
I may die for love of you. Assist me 
thus, I pray you, to surmount the 
weakness of my sex, and put an end 
to all my irresolutions by complete 
despair. 

The fatal termination of my woes 
g2 



84 

would surely force you to think often 
of me ; my memory would be dear to 
you, and you would, perhaps, be sen- 
sibly affected by my dying some ex- 
traordinary death. Would not this 
be better than the condition to which 
you have reduced me ? Adieu 1 Would 
I had never seen you! Ah! how acute- 
ly do I feel the fallay of that sug- , 
gestion I Well do I know, at the mo- 
ment I am writing to you, that I would 
sooner far be miserable in loving you, 
than wish to have never seen you. 

I yield without a murmur then to 
my sad fate, since you have not been 
willing to render it more happy. Adieu ; 
promise that if I die of grief, you will 
tenderly regret me, and that the vio- 
lence of my passion shall at least give 
you a disrelish and aversion for e\sery 



85 

thing an earth. This will console me ; 
and' if I must give you up for ever, I 
shall be glad not to leave you to any 
other. 

Would it not be very cruel in you to 
avail yourself of my despair, that you 
might interest the more, and show how 
warm a passion you had excited : once 
more adieu. My letters are too long, 
I pay too little regard to your feel- 
ings ; but I intreat your pardon, and 
dare hope you will shew some indul« 
gence to a poor insane being, who, as 
you know, was not so until she loved 
you. Adieu, I fear I say too much to 
you of my misery : yet I thank you 
from my heart for the desperation you 
have caused me, and loath the tran- 
quillity in which I lived before I knew 



86 



yon. Adieu , my love increases every 
moment, Ah ! how many things I 
have yet to tell you 



37" 



LETTER XI. 



Your lieutenant has just informed 
me that a tempest has obliged you to 
put back to a port of Algarve. I fear 
you must have suffered a great deal at 
sea, and that apprehension has so haunt- 
ed me, that I have not bestowed a 
thought upon my own sufferings. Do 
you really think that your lieutenant 
takes more concern in what befals you 
than I do ? If not, why is he better in- 
formed upon the subject than I am ? 
In short, why did you not write to me ? 

I am unfortunate indeed if you have 
not been able to find an opportunity 



88 

since your departure, and still more so, 
if you have found one, and not been 
willing to write. Your injustice and 
your ingratitude are extreme : yet I 
should be driven to despair if they were 
to bring down upon you any misfor- 
tune, and I would much rather that 
they remained unpunished than see 
them avenged. 

I refuse to yield credit to all those 
signs which might convince me that 
you no longer love, and I feel much 
more disposed blindly to abandon my- 
self to my passion, than to dwell upon 
the reasons, which you give me, to com- 
plain of your want of attention. 

How much disquietude would you 
not have spared me, had you, when I 
first knew you, shewn as little tender- 
ness, as, it appears to me, that you have 



89 

for some time past displayed. Bui 
who would not, like me, have been de- 
luded by so much ardour, and who 
would not have believed it sincere ? 
How long and difficult is the task of 
learning to suspect the sincerity of those 
we love ! 

I see plainly that the least excuse is 
sufficient for you ; and, even without 
your taking the pains to make any to 
me, my love serves you so faithfully 
that I can only consent to think you 
culpable, that I may enjoy the delight- 
ful pleasure of justifying you myself. 

You won me entirely over by your 
assiduities, you inflamed me by your 
transports, you charmed me by the 
sweetness of your manners, you dis- 
pelled all my fears by your oaths. My 
violent inclination seduced me; and 



90 

the consequences of a passion which, at 
Its commencement, was so pleasant, so 
blest, are only tears, sighs, and a miser- 
able death ; nor have I any remedy 
whatever in my power. 

It is true that in loving you I have 
enjoyed transcendant pleasures ; but I 
pay for them the price of unexampled 
anguish : every feeling that you excite 
within me runs to extremes. Had I 
inflexibly resisted your love ; had I 
given you occasions of uneasiness or 
jealousy, merely to inflame you the 
more ; had you discovered any artifi- 
cial pruderies in my deportment; had 
I, in short, exerted my reason in op- 
position to the natural predilection I 
felt for you, then (although my efforts 
must doubtless have proved futile), 
you would have had a right to pu* 



91 

nish me severely , and to avail your- 
self of your power: but I thought 
you worthy to be loved before you 
talked of loving me. You declared 
an ardent passion for me ; I was en- 
raptured by your avowal, and I yielded 
myself up to Jove you even to infatua- 
tion. 

You were not blind as I was ; why 
then have you permitted me to bring 
myself to this condition ? What could 
you look for in my affections, which 
must only have been wearisome to you ? 
You well knew you w r ere not always to 
be in Portugal, and wherefore did you 
single me out to render me so wretched ?-. 
You might certainly have found some 
more beautiful woman in this country 9 
with whom you might have enjoyed as 
much pleasure, as it was only of gross 



92 

pleasure you were in pursuit ; who might 
have loved you tenderly as long as you 
were in her sight, whom time might 
have consoled for your absence, and 
whom you might have quitted without 
perfidy or cruelty. The conduct you 
have pursued, displays the tyrant fond 
of persecuting, rather than the lover 
who should study only to give de- 
light. 

Alas ! wherefore do you exercise so 
much severity upon the heart that is en- 
tirely yours ? I plainly see that you 
are as much inclined to be prejudiced 
against me^ as I have been to be pre- 
possessed in your favour. 

Without the aid of all my love, and 
without feeling that I had done any 
thing extraordinary, I could have with^ 
stood reasons much more powerful than 



93 

those that have prevailed on you to 
leave me. 1 should have thought them 
very weak ; and there are none what- 
ever that should have torn me from 
you : but you gladly availed yourself 
of any pretext that presented itself to 
you for returning to France.. .. A ship 
was on the point of sailing — why did 
you not let it sail ? Your family had 
written to you.— Are you ignorant of 
all the persecutions which I have suf- 
fered from mine ? Your honour called 
on you to abandon me. — Have I taken 
any thought of my own ? You were 
obliged to go and serve your sovereign. 
— If all that is said of him be true, he 
has little need of your assistance, and 
would have excused you for not giving 
it. 

I should have been too happy could 



m 

we have passed our lives together . 
Since, however, a cruel absence must 
separate us, I must rejoice that I have 
not been faithless ; not for all the 
•world contains would I have been 
guilty of so black an action. You 
knew every thought of my heart, all 
the tenderness which I felt, yet you 
could resolve to leave me for ever, and 
expose me to all the terrors which I 
must feel that you will never more 
think of me — except to sacrifice me to 
a new passion ! 

I am quite conscious that I love you 
like a woman who has lost her senses : 
yet I do not complain of all the vio- 
lence of my heart : I accustom myself 
to its persecutions, and I even could 
not live without that pleasure, which I 
find and enjoy in loving you amidst a 
thousand sorrows. 



95 

But I am incessantly and extremely 
tormented by the hate and disgust 
which I feel for every thing. My fa- 
mily, my friends, and this convent, are 
all insupportable to me. All that I am 
obliged to see ? and all that I am com- 
pelled to do, is odious in my sight : I 
am so jealous of my passion, that it 
seems to me as if all my actions, all 
my duties, centered in you alone : yes, 
I feel some scruples if 1 do not devote 
to you every moment of my life. 

What, alas ! should I do, were my 
heart not filled by so much hate and so 
much love ? How, to lead a tranquil 
and languishing life, could I survive 
all the thoughts by which I am now 
unceasingly occupied ? I could never 
bear this void, thi&onsensibility of the 
soul. 



96 

Every one perceives the entire 
change in my temper, my manners, 
and my person. My mother spoke to 
me about it sharply, and afterwards 
with some degree of mildness. I know 
not what I said in reply to her. It 
seems to me as if I had confessed every 
thing. The most rigid of the nuns 
take compassion upon the state to which 
I am reduced. It even inspires them 
with some regard and tenderness for 
me. Every body is touched with my 
love, yet you remain in a profound in- 
difference, you write me nothing but 
cold letters, full of repetitions^ half the 
paper is not filled, and they show 
plainly that while you write them, you 
are only anxious to get to the conclu- 
sion. 

Donna Brites teazed me lately to 



97 

make me leave my room, and, thinks 
ing to divert me, she led me to take the 
air on the balcony which looks towards 
Mertola. I followed her, and was im- 
mediately struck with a cruel remem- 
brance, which made me weep for the 
remainder of the day. She led me 
back, and I threw myself on my bed, 
where I gave myself up to a thousand 
reflections on the little probability there 
was that I should ever be freed from 
my woes. 

What is done to solace me sharpens 
my grief, and I find even in the reme- 
dies which are offered to me, particu- 
lar reasons to increase my affliction. In 
that place I had frequently seen you 
pass by with an air that charmed me, 
and it was in that balcony that I stood 
on the fatal day when I began to feel 
u 



98 

the first effects of my unfortunate pas- 
sion. I thought that you wished to 
please me, though you knew me not : I 
persuaded myself that you had particu- 
larly remarked me among all the others 
that were standing with me. I ima- 
gined that when you stopped you were 
glad I could see you better ; and that 
you wished me to admire your address 
when you put your horse into a gallop. 
I shuddered when you rode him into 
a dangerous spot : in short, I took a 
secret interest in all your actions. I felt 
plainly that you were not indifferent to 
me, and all that you did I considered 
as done for me. 

You know but too well the conse- 
quences of this beginning ; yet, though 
I have no longer any reason to act 
cautiously, I ought not to speak of them 



99 

to you, lest I should render you more 
guilty, if possible, than you now are, 
and have to reproach myself with mak- 
ing so many useless efforts to oblige you 
to be faithful. — Faithful you will not 
be. Can I hope from my letters and 
my reproaches that, which my love and 
my entire devotion to you have failed 
to secure from your ingratitude. 

I am too certain of my misfortune ; 
your unjust conduct leaves me not the 
least power to doubt of it, and, since 
you have abandoned me, I have every 
thing to dread. 

Is it for me alone that you will 
have charms, and will you not appear 
pleasing in other eyes ? I believe that 
I should not be sorry if the sentiments 
of others justified in some degree my 
own ; and I could wish that all the wo- 
h2 



100 

men in France might consider you as 
amiable, but that none might love, and 
that none might please you. This idea is 
ridiculous, is impossible : nevertheless, 
I have sufficiently proved that you are 
not capable of a strong attachment; 
that you could easily forget me, with- 
out any assistance, and without being 
constrained to do so by a new passion. 
.... Perhaps I even wish that you had 
some treasonable pretext — I should, it 
is true, not be less unhappy, but you 
would not be so culpable. 

I am convinced that though you find 
no great pleasure there, you continue 
in France of your own accord. The 
fatigue of a long voyage, some small 
remains of decency, and the fear.of not 
making an adequate return to my trans- 
ports, detain you.— Ah ! you have no- 



101 

thing to fear from me — I shall be con- 
tented to see you now and then, and to 
know only that we are near each other. 
But perhaps I am flattering myself; 
while you are more interested by the 
rigour and coldness of another than 
you ever were by my love. Is it pas- 
sible that severity can attach you ? 

But before you yteld up your heart 
to the dominion of a violent passion, 
consider well the excess of my sorrows, 
the inconsistency of my conduct, the 
varied agitation of my feelings, the ex- 
travagance of my letters, my sanguine 
hopes, my despair, my wishes, and my 
jealousy. — Ah ! you will make your- 
self miserable : I conjure you to be 
warned by the state in which I am, and 
then if I have suffered for you, to you 
at least my sufferings will not be useless. 



102 

Five or six months ago, you reposed 
in me an unwelcome confidence : you 
confessed candidly to me that you had 
loved a lady of your own country. If 
she detains you from me, tell me so 
without hesitation : — I shall no longer 
languish for your return. 

Some remains of hope support me 
still ; but if I am only to hope, I would 
rather lose that support at once, and 
with it lose myself. Send me her pic- 
ture, and some of her letters. Tell me 
all she says to you — In that I may find 
something to console me, or to end my 
sorrows. 

In my present state I cannot long 
remain, and for me there can be no fa- 
vourable change. I wish too for the 
picture of your brother and your love- - 
ly sister i all that relates to you is dear 



103 

to me ; to whatever you love I am en- 
tirely devoted. I am no longer of the 
same disposition that I have been. 
There are even moments, when I fancy 
that I could submit to serve her you 
love ; your ill treatment and contempt 
have so humbled me, that I dare not 
reflect, lest I should think, that my own 
jealousy has been the cause of your 
neglect, and that I have deeply injured 
you by my reproaches. I often feel, 
that I ought not to expose to you, with 
the frenzy that I do, those sentiments 
which you disapprove. 

The officer has waited long for this 
letter : I had resolved to write in a style 
that should not displease you : but 
what an extravagant letter have I writ- 
ten — I must conclude — Alas ! I cannot 
resolve to do it. While I write, I seem 



104 

to converse with you, and you almost 
appear present to me.... The next shall 
not be so long nor so troublesome ; un- 
der this assurance you may open and 
read it — It is true I ought not to speak 
to you of a passion which displeases 
you, and I will speak of it no more. 

It is now nearly a year, since I gave 
myself up to you without reserve. Your 
passion appeared to me so ardent, so 
sincere, and I could never have thought 
that my fondness would have disgust- 
ed you so much as to induce you to 
take a journey of five hundred leagues, 
and expose yourself to all the dangers 
of the sea, to escape from it. No 1 one 
ever experienced such treatment as I 
have done. You can remember my 
shame, my confusion, my disorder; 
but you do not remember, that yoa 



105 

bound yourself by oaths to love me for 
ever. 

The officer who is to bring you this, 
sends to me for the fourth time to tell 
me that he wishes to be gone. How 
very pressing he is ! He too abandons, 
no doubt, some unhappy one of this 
country. Adieu ! I suffer more in con- 
cluding this letter, than you did in 
leaving me, though perhaps for ever. 
Adieu ! J] dare not call you by those 
thousand endearing names I would ; I 
dare not abandon myself to my feelings, 
I love you more, a thousand times more 
than I thought. How dear you are to 
me ! — Oh, how cruel you are to me ! — 
You never write to me — I cannot re- 
frain from telling you that once more — 
I am beginning again, and the officer 
will be gone — No matter — let him go ! I 



106 

write more for myself than you, I only 
seek to console myself. The length of 
my letter will alarm you — you will not 
read it. What have I done, that I 
should be thus miserable, and why have 
you embittered the remainder of my 
life ? Oh that I had been born in an- 
other country ! Adieu ! forgive me, I 
dare not now ask you to love me — 
Behold to what my fate has> reduced 
me ! Adieu. 



107 



LETTER XII. 



I write to you for the last time ; 
and I hope to convince you, by the 
difference of the style and manner of 
this letter, that you have at length per- 
suaded me that you no longer love me, 
and that, therefore, I ought not to love 
you any longer. 

I shall accordingly send you, by the 
first conveyance, all that I yet possess 
of yours. Fear not that I shall write 
to you; I will not even write your 
name on the packet. I have charged 
Donna Brites with the whole of the ar- 
rangement, her in whom I have been 



108 

accustomed to place confidence of a 
very different kind ; her care will be 
less suspected than mine ; she will take 
every necessary precaution, in order to 
assure me that you have received the 
portraits and the bracelets that you gave 
me/ 

I, however, wish you to know that I 
have for some days felt strongly in- 
clined to burn and destroy every relic 
that would remind me of you, those 
pledges of your love that were so dear 
to me ; but I have already discovered 
so much weakness, that I am convinced 
I could never be capable of proceeding 
to these extremities. I am determined^ 
therefore, to endure all the anguish of 
parting with them, and give you at 
least a little chagrin. 

I will acknowledge, to my shame 



109 

and yours, that I have found myself 
more attached to those trifles than I am 
willing to describe, and I felt that I 
stood in need of all the arguments rea- 
son could muster, to enable me to part 
with any of them, even when I could 
no longer flatter myself with your at- 
tachment ; but perseverance in any one 
design works wonders. I delivered 
them into the hands' of Donna Brites. 
— How many tears this resolution cost 
me ! After a thousand emotions, and a 
thousand incertitudes which you are a 
stranger to, and of which I shall as- 
suredly render you no account... I have 
conjured her never to mention them to 
me, nor restore them to me, though I 
should only ask to look upon them once 
more, and to send them to you without 
my knowing any thing of it, 



110 

I never knew the excess of my love 
until I exerted every effort to cure my- 
self of it. I believe I should never 
have undertaken such a task, could I 
have foreseen the difficulties and the 
obstacles to its success ; for I am per- 
suaded that I should have felt less dis- 
agreeable sensations in loving you, in- 
grate as you are ! than in abandoning 
you for ever. I have proved that you 
were less dear to me than my passion, 
and I have had strange emotions to 
struggle with, after your injurious con- 
duct had rendered your person odious 
to me. 

The natural pride of my sex has not 
assisted me in forming any resolutions 
against you. Alas! I have suffered 
your contempt, I could have supported 
your hatred, and all the jealousy which 



Ill 

your attachment to another could have 
given me ; I should have had at least 
some passion to struggle with ; but 
your indifference is insupportable to 
me; your impertinent protestations of 
friendship, and the ridiculous civilities 
of your last letter, have shewn me that 
you have received all mine, and that 
they have been incapable of inspiring 
the least emotion in your heart, and yet 
you have read them ! Ingrate, I am yet 
weak enough to be distracted at the 
idea of not being able to flatter myself 
that you never received them. 

I heartily detest you. Did I ever ask 
you to tell me sincerely the truth ? 
Why could you not suffer me to enjoy 
my passion? You had only to desist 
from writing to me ; I should not have 
sought the fatal truth. Am I not in- 



312 

deed unfortunate, in that I could not 
oblige you to take some pains to de- 
ceive me, and to be no longer able to 
excuse you ? Know that I perceive you 
are unworthy of my sentiments, and 
that I have discovered all the dark 
shades of your character. 

Therefore (if all I have done for you 
may entitle me to ask any favour at 
your hands) I conjure you to write to 
me no more 5 and to assist me to forget 
you entirely. If you were to evince, 
in even the slightest manner, that the 
perusal of this letter pained you, I 
should perhaps believe you, and per- 
haps also your confession would in- 
flame me with sentiments of anger, and 
with other sensations. 

Do not, then, interfere with my con- 
duct; you might overturn all my de* 



J 13 

signs and resolutions, whatever part 
you take. I do not wish to know the 
success of this letter. Trouble not the 
state for which I am preparing myself; 
j t ou ought to be content with what you 
have already made me suffer. What- 
ever designs you might have formed for 
rendering me unhappy, deprive me not 
of my present state of incertitude. I 
hope I shall in time become a little more 
tranquil. I promise not to hate you ; I 
feel too forcibly the violence of my sen- 
timents to daje to undertake it. I am 
persuaded that I shall find in this 

country a more faithful lover But, 

alas ! who can inspire me with love ? 
Can the passion of another occupy my 
soul ? Has mine had any influence over 
you ? and have I not felt that a wound- 
ed heart can never forget the cause of 



tm 

those transports which were unknown: 
to it ; that all its emotions are attached 
to the idol who gave birth to them ; 
that its first wound can neither be 
healed nor effaced ; that all the passions 
which offer their assistance to fill it 
with other sensations, and soothe it into 
peace, promise in vain that delicious 
sensibilitj which it can no longer 
find; that all the pleasures it seeks, 
without being anxious to find them, 
only serve to prove that nothing is so 
dear as the remembrance of its woes. 
"Why have you made me experience 
the imperfection and vexation of an 
attachment which ought not to have 
lasted for ever, and the miseries whick 
attend a violent passion, that is not re- 
turned ? Alas ! why does blind affec* 
tion and cruel destiny determine us to 



115 

attach ourselves to fhose who are in- 
sensible, rather than to those who 
would feel an equal passion ! When 
even I might hope for some solace in 
a new amour, and that I might find 
at length a faithful lover, I pity my 
own case so much, that I would not 
place the least deserving of mankind 
in the situation to which you have re- 
duced me ; and though I am under no 
obligation to shew you any tender- 
ness, I could not bring myself to exer- 
cise so cruel a vengeance even upon 
you, should it, from any unforeseen 
change, ever be in my power. I even 
now seek excuses for your conduct; 
for I feel too well that a nun cannot 
appear so interesting to you as another : 
yet, methinks, if the heart left reason 
a choice, your sex would rather be at- 
i2 



116 

tached to them than to other women; 
they have nothing to prevent them 
from surrendering their whole souls to 
the delicious impression of love ; the 
numerous objects which attract female 
attention in the intercourse with the 
world has no pow©r over them % they 
are secluded from all tho*e scenes which 
please the fancy and vitiate the heart ; 
they dwell only on the idea of their 
lover. I often fancy that it must be un«* 
pleasing to a lover,, to see her in whom 
his happiness is centered, perpetually 
occupied with trifles. How can he 
sutfer her, without being driven to de- 
spair, to be continually talking of balls > 
assemblies, operas, walks, dresses ? &c. 
perpetually exposed to fresh causes of 
jealousy. Then they are obliged to in* 
terchange the reciprocities of polite* 



117 

ness, of complaisance, and conversation ; 
and what lover can feel assured that 
they do not enjoy amusement, I will 
not say pleasure, on those occasions. 
Oh ! they ought to relinquish a lover 
who is not credulous and unsuspecting 
as a child, and who cannot, without 
hesitation, credit all they tell him, and 
who cannot see them, without emotion, 
flirt with every one who addresses them. 
But I have no intention of proving 
to you, by a chain of reasoning, that 
you ought to love me — that would be a 
very poor method ; and besides, I have 
employed much better ones which have 
failed. I know too well jny destiny 
to endeavour to surmount it. I shall 
be unhappy to my latest hour : was I 
not so even when I saw you every day ? 
J used to be dying with alarm lest you 



118 

should prove unfaithful; I wished to 
see you every moment, though I knew 
it was impossible ; I was terrified with 
the danger you run in entering the con- 
vent ; I was driven to despair when 
you were with tlie army ; I was mi- « 
serable in thinking that I was not more 
beautiful and more worthy of you ; I 
was angry with fate for placing me in 
the middle ranks of life, and I often 
thought that the attachment you ap- 
peared to have for me might prove 
prejudicial to your fortune ; I thought 
that I could not love you sufficiently ; 
on your account I dreaded the anger 
of my friends, and I was indeed as 
miserable as I am now. 

If you had given me any proofs of 
your passion after you left Portugal, I 
would have exerted every effort to leave 



119 

it too ; I would have disguised myself, 
and wandered until I had found you ; 
but alas ! what would have become of 
me if you had deserted me in France, 
Laden with disgrace, myself and my 
family covered with shame, who, since 
you no longer love me, have become 
more dear to me than before. 

You perceive that I can coolly re- 
flect that I might have been in a more 
miserable situation than I even am 
jriow : that I can speak to you at least 
rationally for once in my life. Whe- 
ther this moderation may please you, 
and make you better satisfied with me, 
I wish not to know. I have already 
entreated you to write to me no more, 
and I earnestly repeat the entreaty. 

Have you never reflected on your 
unworthy ^ treatment of me ? Do yo& 



never think that you owe more to me 
than all the world besides ? I have loved 
you madly ; for your sake, how have 
I contemned every thing else! — You 
have not acted like a man of honour. 
You must, from the first, have had a 
natural aversion for me, since mj T pas- 
sion has failed to excite in you a lore 
equally desperate. I have suffered my- 
self to grow enamoured of very com- 
mon attractions. — What sacrifices have 
you made for me ? Have you not been 
constantly in search of a thousand 
amusements ? Have you renounced the 
sports of the town or of the country ? 
Were you not the first to join the army, 
and are you not the last to return ? 
You wantonly exposed your person, al- 
though I conjured you for my sake to 
be careful of yourself. You have not 



121 

endeavoured to establish yourself in 
Portugal, where you are so beloved ; one 
letter from your brother drew you from 
me, you hesitated not a moment : — and 
do I not know that, during the whole 
voyage, your cheerfulness never for- 
sook you. 

It must be confessed that I have cause 
to hate you mortally. Ah ! I have 
myself been the cause of my own mis- 
fortunes : my love was sincere as it was 
ardent ; had I been less sincere, you 
would have loved me more : to excite 
an ardent passion required greater ad- 
dress, and love alone is not sufficient 
to create love. You wished that I should 
love you ; and when you had formed 
the design, you left no means untried 
to accomplish it ; you would have even 
resolved to love me yourself had that 



122 

Ibeen necessary ; but you found that 
■without feeling any love yourself, you 
could succeed in your enterprise What 
perfidy ! Do you think this treachery 
shall pass unpunished ? Should any 
chance bring you again into this coun- 
try, I tell you that I would deliver 
you up to the vengeance of my family. 
I have long abandoned rtiyself to 
an idolatry, which now fills me with 
horror ; and my remorse haunts me in- 
cessantly. I am feelingly alive to the 
^hame of the crimes which you have 
made me commit, and alas ! passion 
no longer binds me to their enormity. 
When will my heart cease to be ago- 
nized ? When shall I be delivered from 
this miserable situation ? Still I think 
that I wish you no evil, and that I 
could be pleased to see you happy. 



us 

But if you have a heart, can you be 
-so? 

I should like to write you another let- 
ter, to let you see thai I shall in time 5 
perhaps, regain my tranquillity. What 
pleasure will it be to me when I can 
reproach you with your injurious con- 
duct, and feel it no longer : when I 
can let you see that I despise you, that 
I can speak with cool indifference of 
your treachery, that I have forgotten 
my sorrows, that I remember you no 
more than I wish you to remember me. 

I allow that you have great advan* 
tage over me, you have inspired me 
with a passion which has deprived me 
of my reason; but you have no reason 
to be vain on that account. I was 
young, I was credulous; I had been 
immured from my infancy in a con- 



124 

vent ; I had seen none but disagree* 
able persons ; I had never before heard 
the sound of flattery, which you inces- 
santly applied. I thought those charms 
and that beauty which you had found 
in me, and which you made me per- 
ceive for the first time myself were 
justly yours : I heard you well spoken 
©f : all the world spoke in your favour ; 
you practised every deception to make 
me love you : but I am at length awa* 
kened from the enchantment ; you have 
assisted to break the charm, and I con- 
fess that your assistance was required. 

In returning your letters, I have at- 
tentively perused the two last which 
you wrote me, and I have read them 
much oftener than I have your first 
letters, to prevent a relapse into my 
former follies. — Ah ! how much it cost 



125 

me : and how happy I should have bees 
if you would have allowed me to love 
you always ! I feel that I am still too 
much engrossed by my injuries and your 
infidelities ; but remember 1 have deter- 
mined to regain a more tranquil state : 
this I will obtain, or release myself at 
onee by some extremity, which you per* 
haps would learn without much sor- 
row. — But I wish nothing more of you z 
I am an ideot to repeat the same thing 
so often : I must resign you, and think 
no more of you; I believe too I must 
write to you no more — Am I obliged 
to render you an account of all my 
feelings I — I fear I am. Adieu. 

THE END. 



T. Gillet, Printer, Crown-court, 



tf 



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